


Flesh and Guile

by SaoirseSeahorse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-10 11:15:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15290331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaoirseSeahorse/pseuds/SaoirseSeahorse
Summary: Ex-soldier Sebastian takes it upon himself to break away from the organised crime he'd previously found himself involved in, and instead, use his specialised skills to anonymously take care of other's problems, permanently. He prides himself on maintaining his anonymity, his name, and any information about him, is strictly kept from the eyes of both clients, and the public. Until it isn't, and he is cracked open, splayed out and exposed, much in the same way any of his targets are in death. An anonymous figure gets a hold of far more than he cares to admit, and in turn, Sebastian is forced to buckle to the other's wills in order to keep himself out of prison, and off of the Most Wanted list.





	1. Prelude

Sebastian Moran was not a man that held a moral compass close to his heart. He didn't pride himself on being good, nor being moral, he prided himself on doing what made him feel the rush in his chest, and in the pit of his gut, the adrenaline that made his blood feel like diesel, drained his head of any stupid little thought, and instead, replaced it with what he liked to consider the hunt. The endless game of cat and mouse, chasing, and chasing, and chasing. He so rarely got tired of running after things, it seemed far more worth it when he considered the satisfaction he'd get from completing it all in the end. 

This was not to say that Mr. Moran was a sadist, however. Certainly, he enjoyed the chase. He enjoyed the satisfaction that came from cutting a game short, firing the gun, and seeing those little bullets slice with ease through his target. His desire to  _hurt_ wasn't there, but the hunt gave him a thrill he had been seeking for far longer than he himself cared to admit. Murder hadn't been on his to do list when he had been younger. He imagined most little boys foresee such a thing in their future, much less a boy who had been brought up as Sebastian was. The son of an Army General, he'd learned rather quickly that biting the hand that fed him never ended well. Chin up, back straight, hands by your sides. It was a mantra that played over and over in his mind. His father's stubbornness, and stoic nature, his stubbornness in forcing Sebastian into the Army had wound up doing just that, forcing him into the Army. 

It turned out, that when serving in the British Army, the son of Sir. Augustus Moran could get away with most anything. While initially, it had been a hellish thought, Sebastian grew fond of his new playground rather quickly. It kept him away from his father, though most of all, gave him lovely, dangerous little weapons. More than enough of a spark to fan the flame that had, undoubtedly, contributed towards his fondness for the hunt. 

Eight years of outstanding service later, he'd arrived at the title of Lieutenant Colonel. Placed in charge of over six hundred men, at age twenty four, Sebastian had adapted rather well to life in charge. Again, not that he was a sadist, he just much preferred doing his work from far away. He enjoyed having the upper hand on his enemy, pushing forward an army of six hundred Privates allowed him to have that space, to command from a distance, and through the scope of his L115A3. His time in control, however, was short lived. An altercation with a Lieutenant led to, unfortunately, a 9mm bullet making itself nice and cosy right between the eyes of the other. While Sebastian had attempted to prove his innocence, the bullet was traced back to his own, personal Glock, the prints traced back to his fingers, and the red strike was drawn over his name as he was cuffed, and led off. Really, even if Sebastian acknowledged his guilt, he felt that he truly had done very little wrong. He had been taught to tolerate no harsh words from his men, his men were to respect him. It made sense to silence one that wouldn't. 

As expected, it hadn't necessarily gone down well. Sebastian Moran, son of Sir Augustus Moran, the best sniper to have graced British soil, being cuffed and hauled off to prison for murder. His father certainly hadn't taken to it well. Of course, he'd posted his bail, bribed a man or two to keep the story from hitting headlines, though. Not to mention slipped something to the Judge. He hadn't paid attention, really. He wasn't a spoilt child, Sebastian had been more than prepared to take the punishment that was coming. He felt no remorse, very much reasoning that the man would have died either way. Useless soldiers never made it far in war, and resilience was always key, though his father, largely to protect his own ego, he supposed, had paid off anyone with any sliver of involvement in the case. It had gone away, though not without a price of his own. 

He was thrown out, landing neatly at the bottom of the pile, and staying there for a few months longer than he had ever planned to, scratching for money. From a Lieutenant Colonel, to what was essentially a homeless man. If anything, Sebastian certainly didn't have the patience for it. So he lied through his teeth, whittled his way into crime, pulling together scraps of money to keep himself fed, and awake, and then, stowing enough away to buy that charming little gun he'd always wanted to get his hands on. 

He'd kept his phenomenal aim a well kept secret throughout finding his feat in crime, he supposed it wouldn't help him at all in that world to reveal all his tricks early on, so he played the role of young lackey well, before he managed to make his first gun purchase, a handgun. A Glock, similar to the one that had fired that bullet neatly between his Lieutenant's eyes. That was kept stowed away, either tucked away and hidden, or on his belt at all times, until his rather charming little rifle came in. An American make, though all guns were really, but one he'd been itching to get a hold of since reading that the American's had used it for long range sniping. An M24. Kitted with all the bells and whistles, an impressive thing. It hadn't taken him too long to get used to it. A month or so, really, and while his aim wasn't as perfect as it had been previously, it was still a damn sight better than anyone else on the streets. Within the next two months, he'd slowly and methodically removed the men holding him in his lowly place in the crime circle, silently firing bullets, and knocking them to the ground, before falling back into the facade of naive lackey. 

The deaths didn't seem to phase him. He saw them as sacrifices, things that had to be done in order for him to free himself, and in turn, seemed to lose any sense of empathy for the men. They were  _criminals_ after all. Sebastian wasn't a criminal. Simply a man attempting to make a living. A soldier who'd been dropped back at the bottom of the heap. Not that he was unwilling to acknowledge his crimes, he'd murdered. He just didn't feel that they were true atrocities. Not quite yet, at least. 

He did, however, acknowledge that his new career functioned entirely off of crime, entirely off of people's weak willpower, and entirely off of his niche, but terribly special, little area of expertise. His ability to hit anything, from anywhere, with any weapon. It turned out that he was far more sought after than the men he had previously worked for. His skill was valuable, it seemed. Valuable enough for people to pay anything for a guaranteed permanent solution to their problem. Valuable enough for him to put his rates up, a tenfold, and still have customers flying through the door. It was impressive, really, the human condition. The desperation that came from being trapped in a problem where there was no easy solution. 

He enjoyed it though, not necessarily the act of murder, but the hunt. He couldn't help but be enthralled in the hunt. The adrenaline that came from it all, the unassuming prey, struck down by an unobtainable predator. Not even his clients were aware of who he was, his targets certainly never would be. By the time there was any possible suspicion in his prey's mind, they were on the ground. Flat, splayed out, in all of their exposed, bloodied glory. 

There was a satisfaction that stemmed from seeing that bullet pass through. Split through skull, and tear through brain, slipping through the other end as though there was a hole made just for it, spilling out with ease, that split second of quiet, before the blood seeped through. When it started though, the blood didn't stop. It was like with every pulse of that slowing heart, more spilled out. If anything, Sebastian's fascination wasn't so much with murder, nor with death, but simply the beauty that came with it all. The seamless course of actions, carefully constructed. The satisfaction that came with completing his plan. Death was simply a part of it. 

Of course, there were the moments in which things didn't quite fall into place. Not often, he had a 99.98% accuracy rate, but that 0.02% did exist. In which, he took it upon himself to finish his job. Whether that was with bullets or not. There were the occasional moments in which he'd had to pack up, tuck his gun away, and take off after a target or two. Take it all into his own hands. It wasn't his favourite way of finishing off a job, he wasn't much a fan of getting his hands dirty, particularly with the blood of a target. Not to mention the possible swelling from the punches, nor the risk to exposing his own identity. He valued his privacy. He'd taken exceptional lengths to ensure that he could maintain it, having to either beat a target to death was both messy and overall inconvenient. Even shooting at close range, without a silencer, it was too loud. Too messy. Too close to everything. 

He much preferred to maintain his distance, perch himself up on his building, avoid the blood spatter. The crack of bone beneath his fist, the swelling and splitting of his knuckles, the desperate little whimpers for him to stop, hands wrapped around his wrist. It wasn't hard to over power others, but Christ, he simply didn't feel as though he had the time for it. Things to do, places to be, jobs to take, heads to puncture with lead. Time was work, and work was money. It wasn't as though he used the money he obtained, but nonetheless, it was worth having. Just for safe keeping. Despite his privileged background, he'd taken joy in somewhat modest things. A flat that wasn't big enough to house a family of twelve, clothes that didn't cost more than his rent. Two pairs of shoes, and nothing more. His one expense, really, was his gun. Guns, in fact. Multiple guns. He'd developed a bit of a fascination, and a rather impressive collection, though he only ever took two out at a time. One long range rifle, and one hand gun. Just in case. 

Perching himself up on a roof, his Glock strapped to his side, his M24 being pieced together, slowly. He was taking his time with this one. He had more than enough time to waste today, no other jobs, nothing consuming him other than this. It wasn't exactly another 'scorned lover' case, either. A high ranking, servant to the public. He didn't bother asking who he was carrying the hit out for. So long as he maintained his anonymity, he had no reason to breach the others. He had no reason to ask questions, so long as he knew everything he needed to know beforehand. The gun clicked together with relative ease, the scope slipping into place. Loaded, set up, and ready to go within a few minutes, skilled hands making light work of what others may have needed weeks of training to do as quickly as himself. He had years of experience, though. Far longer than he cared to think about. 

Settling himself behind the gun, he lined his sights up, and waited. Waited, for however long he had to wait, in this case, the time dragged on, it felt far longer than he knew it had been. Sometimes, on days similar to this, minutes felt like hours. Whether it was down to heat, down to impatience, down to him having nothing other than this one little job, he found that seconds ticked by infuriatingly slowly. Until the target appeared. Then things sped up, pulse increased just ever so slightly, his finger hovered over that trigger, the blood rushed to his head. He felt as though he shifted into an entirely different state, a different mindset entirely. The man, a slightly stocky, slightly taller than average man. Balding, though dark haired, dressed casually, though smart enough. Well groomed, and caught between his cross-hairs. The man paused, his finger squeezed, and the silenced and flash-hidden gun went off, recoil pushing back just ever so slightly into his shoulder, bullet taking a second or two to hit exactly where he had aimed. The back of his head, entering closer to the top, shredding through the skin, drilling through bone, and almost immediately reappearing. There was a blissful second or two of silence, where that crimson sunk out from the wound, dripping down, soaking his shirt, and yet, nobody noticed. He stayed on his feet, blood seeping, and seeping, before his legs finally buckled, knees hitting the concrete, body slumping forward, skull cracking against the pavement, and blood beginning to pool. It was a power thrill, really, to be able to step back, and then watch the chaos ensue. He pushed himself back, pulling the gun from it's ledge, allowing the moment to sink in, committing it to his memory, basking in the quiet, and the panic, before he was pulled from his thoughts by a beep from his phone, his attention being pulled back, down, slipping his phone from his pocket, and unlocking it. 

'I am  _very_ impressed. M'

Likely whoever had hired him. This was a throwaway phone, anyway. It didn't necessarily matter if his number had been dug up. He'd get rid of it after the money was transferred into his account. 

'Would you be willing to do that again? Just for fun. M'

'I'll pay you double. M'

A frown settled itself on the others face as he read over the words, pulling himself back, back pressing against the concrete ledge, as he leaned against it. He didn't do more than one job at once, not from the same person. He had it in his conditions. 

'I don't care what you pay. No alterations to our contract. The job is done. HM' 

A pseudonym, his initials only ever stood for 'Hit-Man'. Plain, easy to understand, and anonymous. His clients never knew his name, never knew who he was. There was nothing other than those initials, and a throwaway phone, with no contract, nothing. Simply nothing. He covered his tracks well. He made sure he did. 

'Oh, I don't believe I made it clear the first time. I didn't hire you. M'

A pause, of just a second, and then another text came through. 

'And another thing I ought to make clear, I'm not giving you a choice. I'm telling you. M' 

Sebastian audibly scoffed at that, as though it was a ridiculous concept, as though it was something worth ignoring entirely. He paused for a second, as though debating whether or not it was actually worth discussing, or if he ought to simply ignore the other. Throw the phone away, get a new number, work a little harder to keep those useless little details from slipping into the hands of trolls, or those who felt like toying with him for fun. He finally cracked, deciding to begin typing out another message, though one was sent back before he'd even had the opportunity to respond. 

'Arguing is terribly unappealing to your prospectus employer, Sebastian. I'd very much advise you keep your pretty mouth shut, and do as I say. Otherwise, I imagine you'll find yourself in much the same state as your targets often do. Understood? M x'

A moment of blind panic, as Sebastian stared as his phone, his stupid little flip phone, plastic. He could throw it from the roof, and pretend none of this had happened. But the other had his name. His name was more than enough, it was far too much, in fact. 

'Sebastian Moran. Served for eight years in the British Army, discharged on the grounds of suspected murder. Taken into custody, bailed out by a useless excuse for a father, thrown to the curb by the same man. Eton educated, set for Cambridge before daddy dearest convinced you to ship out with the others. M'

'Don't bother questioning me. You don't have the leverage for once. Isn't it fun? Role reversal. You can call it roleplay, if it makes you feel better. M'

'Tomorrow, be outside of your flat for 23:30. And don't be stupid, Sebby, I am not against a little bit of coercion to get you to play with me. M x' 

He didn't respond. The phone was flipped, his attention moved back to his gun, and in his mind, Sebastian committed to ignoring the texts for as long as possible. He didn't need to consider them now. The other wasn't expecting a response. The phone buzzed once more, as he begun to set pieces of his weapon into the bag. He didn't look this time. He didn't need to. He didn't want to. He simply ignored it, continuing on with his task.

'Don't be late. M'


	2. The Spider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James Moriarty revels in the chaos that is caused by his boredom, and his attempts to satiate it. It is not often, however, that he develops somewhat of a fascination for a stranger. Sebastian Moran appears to be his exception. He finds himself impressed by the soldier, and, after tracking him from his discharge, ensnares him in one of his own crime rings, only to discover that the man has broken away - with relative ease. In turn, Moriarty takes it upon himself to organise a meeting with Sebastian, whether the ex-soldier wants to attend, or not.

James Moriarty was not known for being a patient man. In fact, James Moriarty was known, to most, for very little. It seemed to be the case that the better you were at your job, the more, and simultaneously, less of a public figure you became. He couldn't deny, he rather enjoyed the way that people marvelled at his little games, it proved almost endearing for a moment or two, before the minutes ticked by, and he got bored. 

Boredom was, in many people, the biggest source of their downfall. In children, it causes them to scream, to cry, to complain, to throw temper tantrums. In anyone above the age of eight, it seemed to conjure up another feeling entirely. Just a spiralling dullness, an empty hole, or a numbness that was unshakeable, despite our best efforts. Eventually, the majority might end up sitting, staring at a wall, feeling sorry for themselves. Boredom to James, however, proved to be something else entirely. 

Not an empty, deep, dissatisfaction, but much more like a child, it was a niggling irritation, that festered, and festered, until it culminated in explosive unpredictability. Exactly how he liked it. People danced much better when they were kept on their toes, and James did  _so_ know how to keep them on their toes. Between his private arsenal of lovingly-hand-crafted explosives, imported weaponry, and those charming little bullets - He did have a flair for a statement, he'd had them engraved -, he had proven himself as enough of a threat. Humans were weak with confronted with their own mortality, and it took little more than a wave of a gun, or a threat uttered against a person they adored to keep them in check. 

Not that Moriarty's weapons were the most terrifying part of him, not by a long shot. In fact, James found that what unnerved people the most around him was their crippling inability to put him in a box, to place him under some kind of label, and more so than anything, try to predict what he would do next. There was no part of him that anyone could read. He revelled in violence, and spontaneity, without even trying. For James, everything proved effortless in his work. Everything about his character, about exercising his control, about ensuring that things went his way, was effortless. 

It never failed to amuse him, however, the naivete of those who wandered into his web, having not encountered him before. Gang crime was one thing, but his web wasn't a gang. People weren't there out of loyalty, nor out of want to be a part of something. He'd enlisted those he believed would be beneficial, by giving them no other option. Every so often, though, he got bored. He got bored of the people, bored of keeping his promises, bored of everything in between. Cue, his interest in Sebastian Moran. 

Sebastian Moran was not a name that had been unfamiliar to him before the sniper encroached on his little playground. He found it most beneficial to keep tabs on the government, and all of their little projects, including the army. There were some truly interesting characters that they had a habit of chewing up and spitting out. James liked to keep an eye on them all. A makeshift zoo, if you will, witnessing the cracks and creases in the human facade splinter until they finally broke and tore. If there was one thing he was willing to admit, it was that devastation did make quite the after-dinner show for him. Moran, however, had proven to be significantly more interesting. 

He was a broken soldier, they all were. With painful daddy issues, left out to rot with barely a penny to their names, though Moran took up what most others didn't seem to. He'd watched him, since his discharge. It wasn't often that stories of soldiers putting bullet between their colleagues eyes didn't go public, but Moriarty heard everything. Much like a spider, when there was a vibration in his web, he knew exactly where to look, and what to do. Tracking Moran had become a fun little side project, too. A filler, for when he had just that  _little_ bit too much time. He'd grown accustomed to soldiers with superiority complexes, with moral compasses that wavered the moment you threaded a string through a wad of cotton notes, and dangled it in front of their nose like a carrot on a stick. Moran was different, though. 

The carrot had only worked briefly. He'd expected him to get swept up in the money, and the drugs, like so many others coming back from war did. It seemed self medicating with cocaine and ecstasy proved much more effective to them than attending a therapy session, and confessing their deepest, darkest secrets to a stranger. Talking about how they'd witnessed men shot down ruthlessly, and homes go up in flames. No, soldiers were far too strong in their own character to admit weakness. It was what made them weak. Yet, Moran had avoided it. Despite his noticeable penchant for alcohol and cigarettes, he stayed relatively straight and narrow. That had been the first indicator that he was worth more than the split second of time Moriarty unwillingly gave to the rest of his pawns. 

The murders had been the second. Now that  _had_ impressed him. Dear me, there was nothing _quite_ like a man putting bullets through the heads of the most important people in one of his largest criminal factions to catch his attention. Perhaps if he was anyone else, he'd want his head on a silver platter, but he was far too handsome, and far too entertaining to execute. The men he'd killed were easily replaced. No real harm done. 

So he'd followed him, tracked him through every little movement, every job he'd ever taken, every person he'd contacted. He really hadn't made it difficult for him. His first mistake had been coming out of the army with such a blatantly obvious, and very attractive, charge laid against him. It didn't matter how much his father dearest paid, that would never dissipate. It didn't matter how many times he tried to scrub himself clean of his name, of his records, he wouldn't. He never would. Moriarty's eyes had seen everything, they always did, and tucked away in one of his drawers was everything he'd ever need to know about the man. Sebastian Augustus Moran. 

His text message had been timed carefully, he'd made sure to leave the man enough time to feel comfortable in his new career, to feel that he was excelling, making exceptional headway, before he interrupted it. It had been satisfying enough, seeing his reaction to it all. The arrogance, change to uncertainty, change to far, and then the silence. The telling silence, that spoke far more than the man ever could. He had him suitably ensnared in his trap, and it was glorious. 

He'd chosen night time because the man seemed most accustomed to working in the awkward hours. It wasn't personal preference so much as it was a gift to Moran. One that he likely wouldn't care for, but still, a generous move by himself. As generous as a stranger, despite the fact that Moriarty knew more about the soldier than he the other could ever dream of reciprocating, would ever get from himself. Not to mention, if the man cared at all about his neighbours sanity, he'd put up no struggle at night. Much better than explaining the shouting and crashing so late at night to the landlord. 

The black car slid up, almost silently, Moriarty settled nearly in the back, legs crossed, blue suit on, phone out, tapping aimlessly along to a game of CandyCrush. He said nothing, not even bothering to look up from his phone, as another car drew up behind them, and out stepped three large men. Significantly larger than Moriarty. Perhaps Sebastian would believe that he was one of them. It seemed, nobody ever expected criminals to appear the way that James did. A relatively small, somewhat scrawny looking Irishman. His expensive clothes made it clear, however, that his lifestyle was certainly alternative. His penchant for Vivienne Westwood did not go unnoticed by those who had the privilege of encountering him, nor did his fondness for luxury. He couldn't help but enjoy his Rolex, and while ultimately, money yielded nothing  _that_ important for him, he did enjoy defying the expectations of others. A brief moment passed, his level being completed, as he glanced up, finally from his game, and over to the three men, who were now making their way towards the building. There was a quirk of his eyebrow, before he sunk back into the chair, and turned back to his phone, tapping to start the next level, his attention being drawn back away from whatever he'd organised. 

The meeting, however, was at the forefront of Sebastian's mind. He hadn't forgotten, and it certainly hadn't slipped his mind that he was indeed late. He'd heard the cars pull up. Windows dark, registration plates nonexistent. It was no surprise to him that they were there. Truly, he hadn't really considered what he was going to do. If he'd run from it, his reputation and business would have been damaged. It would have been something he'd have to spend time, and money, scraping back together to form anything similar to what he'd had. He wasn't willing to lose so much for the sake of some arrogant, sleazy criminal. He'd tolerated them before, a business meeting was nothing new to him. He simply hadn't attended one in a while. 

He'd considered shooting him. That likely would have been the best option. Quick, easy, and it would give him time. Not much, but time at least, to organise himself and up sticks, move his business elsewhere. He allowed himself, momentarily, to glance out of the window. Tints on the car prevented him from seeing in, but he was more than aware of the three men making their way towards his building. Three men, likely armed, and they appeared roughly the same height as him. Likely somewhat heavier. He considered, for a moment, whether it was plausible to think that he could take the three of them in a fight, and come out the winner. That wasn't something he felt particularly good about, really, despite his own faith in his fighting capabilities. Something told him that three men, who looked almost like a painful cliche of your typical London gangster, would have little to no problem bashing his skull in if he didn't have a weapon. He had about twenty seconds. Enough time to find a hand gun. 

He did just that, reaching for the Glock, and a magazine, and then another spare one, just in case. Seventeen rounds should have been enough for three men, but he was on edge. Thirty four was simply to make him feel secure. Ten seconds. He was beginning to hear the footsteps, mostly because he was focused on hearing them. He had been waiting for them, he knew they were coming. His flat was entirely silent, as though they'd be fooled into thinking that he wasn't there. He knew that much wasn't true. They wouldn't be here if they suspected that he'd left, it would be a waste, and draw unnecessary attention to whoever had taken it upon themselves to put so much effort into trying to ensnare him. Whoever had organised this was clever, far too clever to allow himself to be exposed when he could, assuming that he had indeed secured his records and phone numbers, just as easily figure out if he was home or not. 

Five seconds. There were feet outside the door, stepping closer. Reaching for the door knob, nothing budging. Two, pushing harder, pressing weight against it, as though it was stuck. Zero, a boot clattered against his door. Perhaps this was a sign to invest in something ever so slightly stronger than wood, within a few kicks, the middle of the door had caved through entirely, and hands reached through, fumbling with the handle, and the lock, before what was left of the door swung open, revealing the three men, who took little more than a second or two to figure out where he was, and immediately run for him. 

The gun went off, a bullet lodging itself in a shoulder, slowing one of them down significantly, and Sebastian took aim again, this time, at the knees of another, pulling the trigger, and a bullet passing through the flesh of the calf. It had only been a few seconds, but the two of them were slower, they'd faltered to tend to their wounds, but the third charged for him still, and before he could fire the gun, a hand wrapped around the barrel, and forced it down, away from himself, as a hand fixed itself tightly around his throat, slamming him back against a wall, a splutter escaping from him as he tried to pull the gun up, pulling the trigger while he still cook, uselessly firing a round into the floor of his flat, his attempts to wrench the weapon back up to the other useless, as one of the two injured ones scrambled their way forward, taking hold of his wrist, and twisting, forcing him to let go. The choking grip didn't loosen, however, and after a few long moments, he became distinctly aware of the pulsing in his brain, and the spots in his vision. 

"Boss says we can do what we like to you so long as we bring you back alive." There was hot breath against his ear with the words, a heavy English accent, likely the outskirts of London, but between the dark, and the spots in his vision, he couldn't pull his gaze up to look the other in the face. His hands, instinctively, went to the one wrapped around his throat, trying to drag it off of him. 

"The bastard shot us, shatter his fucking knee caps, already!" That was quieter, either that, or the pulsing and rushing of blood in Sebastian's ears was making everything seem quieter. He couldn't focus on anything but the lack of breath, and in turn, when a fist drove into his gut, he hadn't been able to prepare, hadn't been able to anticipate, resulting in a much more abrupt, and painful, shock to the system. The hand around his throat loosened up, only to have him double over, hand clutching his stomach as he sucked breaths in through his winded state. It was relief and pain, all in one, until the foot drove down against his back, forcing him to the floor, knocking the breath from his lungs. 

He hadn't had a chance to fight back, only cowards behaved in a way like that. He would've said it, had be been able to choke the words out, but there was no breath in him, no air to push out to form words. Reeling back, he pulled himself up from the ground, vision hazy, as he swung out at one of the men. Not a soft punch, by any means, certainly not weak. While Sebastian wasn't use to losing, he was used to being hurt, though, while the punch landed, it was useless. There were three of them. Three men against one of him, who had already been floored. 

An elbow to the nose ended with a resounding crack, and a sudden oozing of warmth, and as he lifted his hand to touch the thick blood that dripped down his face, another foot came down against his back. There was no way out of this. If he fought back, they'd beat him harder. It was more self preservation than anything else now, winning certainly wasn't a priority anymore. Getting out of here with air in his lungs, and a distinct lack of blood and brain matter outside of his body sounded promising. He'd invest time in making sure he wasn't beaten to death by three goons. 

A hand moved to his hair, dragging him back up to his knees, a hand back around his throat, as a knee came up, driving into him, just below his rib cage, summoning up nausea, and a horrible splutter, only made worse by the blood he could taste in his mouth. He'd have to reset his nose at some point, it would be a shame to ruin it after all these years because of some ridiculous, wannabe gangsters. Another kick to his gut, and hands wrapped around his arms, hauling him up, two of them having to drag him along the floor, as the third man walked behind, with what Sebastian assumed was a weapon, pointed at them. He said nothing. Between the mutterings of the strangers, and the blood oozing down his chin, he found that there wasn't much else to say. The entire beating had lasted perhaps five minutes, but three against one was never a fair fight, particularly when the three were larger than him. He was simply grateful two of them had caught bullets. 

Dragged down the stairs, the two men pulling him along came to a stop just before the door out to the road, and Sebastian lifted his head to look at the third, his sight finally returning, without the spots in it this time, so he could observe exactly what his attacker looked like. Large, particularly wide, dressed in a black shirt, black jeans, hair like he'd just been dragged out of bed, face square, expression tight. He looked sharp, tough, exactly what Sebastian would've expected from a soldier. Much like himself, the habit of maintaining good posture, and a flat expression, seemed to be drilled into the other. There were no words exchanged, however. Not that Sebastian had expected there would be. As though it was a split second decision, the butt of the gun was raised, and came cracking down against his skull. Not enough to knock him out, but more than enough to cause pain, and definitely blood, not to mention just a little vision spotting. A hiss came out alongside the crack, and a small struggle, short lived, but there nonetheless. That would be as far as he went in regards to responding to pain. There was no need to appear weaker than he was. 

The third man walked back behind him. He felt his weight shift on the floor, and then, his arms were left go of, wrists instead taken by what he assumed as an ex soldier, and cuffed together, before he was picked up by the shoulders, and dragged the rest of the way out, towards the black cars. Hazy vision, and rather unexpected blood loss, seemed to contribute towards his complete inability to say a word, and even as the door to the car was open, and he was shoved inside, he said nothing. Even as the hulking man took it upon himself to not just cuff his wrists, but cuff his ankles together, he said nothing, just sinking back in the chair. 

Jim was in much the same kind of mood. He had very little tolerance for nonsense. Sebastian's unwillingness to do as he was told, and the subsequent beating of Sebastian was just that. Nonsense. What a silly boy. He'd have to train that much out of him. It wouldn't be too difficult of a task, he imagined. Dogs got attached so easily to their owners, it was simple enough to train anything out of them, and he'd no doubt have a similar experience with the man. 

Finally, after a long moment of tapping away at his phone, in an effort to complete his final level, he looked up, his gaze wandering over the other's figure. Black and blue didn't suit his face. At least, not without him having seen how it had happened. It was never as fun without truly being there for the beating. He tutted. 

"Hello, Sebastian." His words came out as a bored drawl, as though his interest in the other had wavered after seeing him come out of a fight, which truly shouldn't have posed that much of a threat to him, considering he was heavily armed, looking as though he'd been cornered, helpless, and beaten. "Terrible shame about your face. I'd suggest resetting the nose before it gets stuck like that." In amongst all the blood, Sebastian's crooked nose was perhaps, the biggest sign that he'd lost the fight. It had been displaced rather terribly. 

As per the other's suggestion, Sebastian lifted his hand, gripping the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, before giving a sharp pull, the nose cracking back into where it seemed it should have been. A sight grunt escaped with the readjustment, as he lifted a finger in an attempt to measure how straight his nose was in comparison. It didn't have to be perfect. He'd broken it more than enough to know it never would be the way it was initially. Somewhat straight would do. 

"I did warn you. Silly. Should've done as you were told." 

The engine started, without a word from James, and Sebastian felt himself pushed back just ever so slightly into the chair as the drivers foot went down. Fighting had, presumably, been the wrong choice. Attempted murder also seemed to have been the wrong choice. But he'd never been one to make things easy for himself. 

"I don't like having to ruin such a pretty face." Jim tutted again, pulling his eyes away from the man, and drawing his phone back from his pocket, this time opening up his messages, and beginning to type out a text. "The silence will get so very boring, so very quickly, in my presence, darling." Another drawl, almost as though it was a threat, though it was spoken without him so much as looking at the battered man. In turn, Sebastian once more, said nothing. A roll of his eyes gave Jim's response.

"I am not a patient man, Mr. Moran. I'd very much advise you to think carefully about how you act around me." There was a pause, as Sebastian finally turned to glance at the other, and James, taking note of that, took his opportunity to catch the other's eye. 

A slight smile, as the phone lowered, and he spoke carefully. 

"Trust me when I say, this was me being kind. Generous, if you will. Persuasive. I am not likely to be so kind again. Second chances are not my forte, so I'd advise you to try and impress me while you still have the chance." 

He let his gaze linger, taking in the look on Sebastian's face. The blood ruined his good looks, but the expression of uncertainty, and more than anything, discomfort, shone through. It was wonderful, really. He let him stew in it, before he finally broke the gaze, allowing the other to look away, as his own eyes settled back on the phone, not bothering to acknowledge Sebastian again in their journey. He had more important things to do than tend to a broken, wounded little toy soldier. He'd leave that to those who were disposable, and come back when he was ready for him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh wow hello it's another chapter. this time, 5:46am. the updates for this are going to be super sporadic, and for that i apologise, there's lots going on in my life atm. on a more positive note, say hello to james moriarty, who has finally made his lovely, dramatic appearance. thank you for the kind comments and kudos, this is my first piece of writing on here, and i'm flattered and humbled that others enjoy it like they do. <3


	3. The Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian and Jim finally see one another in the flesh, and in the light. Sebastian, in his beaten and bruised state, wants nothing more than to get out of whatever situation he is in, while Jim finds himself enthralled by the weaknesses in Sebastian. He believes that he can fix the man, and get the most out of him with his own, twisted methods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think these might work better at the beginning? unsure, still new to this. i want to apologise, this chapter is either going to a) be late and normal length, or b) be late and short, or c) be late and be very long. this past week has been super busy for me (planning moving out and sorting out uni stuff is apparently,,, extremely stressfull,,,), so i've wound up not being able to find the time to write like i usually would. i try to update this at least once a week, but it seems i've settled into the pattern of once every eight days. oops. do apologise. nonetheless, i hope you enjoy this, and once more, thank you for the kudos and the comments, i'm absolutely blown away by how well this has done, i'm used to my writings getting three or so reads, with two of those being myself. <3

The car journey was longer than Sebastian had expected. Dragging on, and on, the silence lingering, the atmosphere almost painfully thick. The quiet only ever seemed to be interrupted by the frequent tapping of the stranger on his phone. A distraction, but not one that was wanted. It was almost as though it was done on purpose, really. To consistently draw attention to the situation he was in, which appeared to be a rather dire one at that. Was this where he would die? Maybe. He doubted it, somewhat, however. It seemed a little counterproductive to murder a man like himself. 

That wasn't arrogance, so much as it was faith in his abilities. While his name, and his face, were not public information, his skills certainly were. His abilities, the jobs he'd done, his notoriety, all public information, all very much tied to him. As such, he saw two plausible outcomes with whatever was going on. One, he'd crossed paths with the man before. Perhaps killed somebody valuable to him, and now he was being caught and executed as a revenge killing. Not uncommon. Not something others hadn't tried before. Maybe this one would finally be successful. The second option, and both his favourite and least favourite outcome, came in the form of considering that this was a kidnapping and a blackmail, to make him work exclusively for whoever the stranger was. 

It was preferable, because it likely wouldn't end in death. Well, so long as he accepted whatever proposal he was given. It was his least favourite, however, because it wound up in him being tied down. Bound to one master, like a dog on a leash, and while Sebastian had once thrived in that environment, his first seven years in the army were a prime example, he had flourished on his own. Built an empire. Become a threat. He'd gone from being collared, leashed and chained up in a garden to being able to conduct and facilitate his own life, his own world. Every hunt was by choice, and every step he took, he'd decided on. 

He sunk back into his seat, the blood that had seeped from his cracked nose had thickened and dried, clinging to his face, resulting in something itchy and uncomfortable. Another distraction, one that was significantly more annoying, but he made no move to alter the situation. No move to break the silence, to touch his face, even if he'd wanted to, it would've been completely useless. His bound hands ensured that he moved as little as possible. Generally, Sebastian wasn't one for quiet, he was one of those people that you so often found rushing to fill the empty space, particularly if he felt he was in danger. Not necessarily out of awkwardness, but more so out of a need. Jokes, mocking, and broken humour had served him well, all through the army, all through his new career. He'd found it was a wonderful way to separate himself from the situation at hand, something that was necessary if you were going to be fighting anywhere at all, really. Disconnecting yourself from the severity of something made it just so much easier to ensure that you took all the necessary risks, ensure that your brain didn't collapse in the middle of what you were doing, and suddenly realise what was going on, only to crumble when you needed the focus the most. He'd seen it happen time and time again. 

He could do that in silence, he supposed. If he focused. But the distractions proved to be just enough that he found himself nervous, the itching, the tapping, the feeling of being restrained and constricted. It all ate away at his common sense, it seemed. After an hour in the car, he could feel the pressure building up in the back of his skull. A nervousness, like a tick, resulting in little twitches wherever it itched most on his face, occasionally a shift in his seat, a pulling at the handcuffs. His brain was no longer in combat mode, but instead, in a strange limbo he hadn't felt in years, he felt entirely exposed. 

Moriarty was well aware of this. 

He was well aware of all of Sebastian's little ticks and triggers. Every tip and trick he'd used to breeze his way through his career was coming to a head now. All animals were the same, in their core. Once you had them cornered, wounded, they'd whimper and cry. Even the most stoic mutt would cave under the right amount of pressure. The real struggle came when they'd healed up, when they were released from their confines. It took training and conditioning to get them to obey, and even then, if a hunting hound didn't prove its worth, then was it really worth keeping? Perhaps, if you had a penchant for pet dogs and docile creatures, but James had neither. He needed bloodhounds, not needy, desperate little puppies. If a dog didn't prove that it was worth its training, a bullet between the eyes would suffice. A quick and clean end to a life that was essentially useless from the beginning. 

He did have such high hopes for Moran, though. This time, he had done his research. Not that he hadn't before, but Sebastian Moran had captured his attention. A dog of true Pedigree breeding. Raised in a household in which he was treated like an object, learned to obey from a young age. Basic commands were practically ingrained in his psyche, sit, lay down, and beg must have been child's play to him. Charming, really. He'd never taken in a docile stray before. The problem seemed to lay in his supposed whirlwind adventure with independence. A cliche, really, he was having his rebellious phase twenty years too late. He needed somebody to reign him in, and he was more than happy to supply the leash with which to bind him. Patience and time were not things he had droves of, however. A man with the ability to employ anyone, and get rid of anyone, had room to expect quick results, a swift turnaround, and those expectations did not falter when it came to Moran. 

The car drove for half an hour more, outside of London. Isolation was exercised on purpose. The further away Sebastian felt from a source of comfort, the more likely it was that he'd squirm under pressure. Comfort, for most, meant home, family, sentimental belongings. James didn't have any of those things on Moran, nothing other than his quiet desperation for a life in which he went unnoticed by others, and could continue to work the only job he'd ever truly excelled in. 

A sharp right turn, and then the car slowed significantly, dragging itself along what felt like a back-road, only to grind to a halt. The sky had grown darker in the hour and a half they had been driving, and in turn, James found himself entirely satisfied with the thought that Sebastian would not only be disorientated, but completely clueless as to where he was. Neither of the two men spoke a word, even as the car behind them stopped, and the two men who were still capable of walking, that had initially been tasked with ensuring Sebastian made his way into Moriarty's care with relative ease, stepped out. Doors swinging open, torches providing what would have been, to Sebastian, a sharp and unexpected stream of light as they shone through the windows, before the the door to Sebastian's side of the car was hauled open, and hands wrapped around his arms to drag him out, a firm grip on his shoulder ensuring that he wasn't able to shake them men off. 

Sebastian felt no real desire to attempt to fight, at least, not while he didn't know where he was. He wasn't stupid enough to lash out without knowing his bearings first. He wondered what the other was expecting, what he anticipated from him. Whether he was waiting for the inevitable snap, or whether he was just so arrogant that he assumed he could get away with whatever he was trying to do. He suspected the stranger underestimated his intelligence, although, in saying that, the other had managed to find out who he was, locate him, and have him kidnapped. Perhaps he underestimated the stranger's intelligence, too. 

When it came down to it, he had a terrible way of putting on blinkers, and ignoring what he didn't want to believe was true. Sebastian himself was an intelligent man, he'd thrived in everything he chose to do, despite his upbringing. He'd been privately educated, he'd been exceptionally talented in English, languages and law. One of the few pastimes he'd clung on to had been reading, and despite his being forced into the army, he'd prided himself on how intelligent he was. It had, perhaps, led to some arrogance in him. An unwillingness to accept that others were smarter, or could outsmart him. It seemed that much was coming into play in his current situation. He could outsmart the other. He just had to play the waiting game. 

It was too dark for him to fully comprehend his surroundings. He made out small details, like grass, stones, gravel, one big building, but there was nothing specific. No colours, no light, just what he could make out from being hastily dragged down the last few metres of a gravel path. It was easier to tolerate the others when they weren't talking, or hitting out at him. Tolerate was as far as he would go with words of kindness, however. 

The gravel ended, and he was hauled up, his feet gracing something sturdier, concrete, he thought, as he was pulled along, pushed down into a chair, monitored by one of the men whilst the other moved to another end of the building, flicking a switch, and lighting up the room. It took a long moment to adjust, the sudden flush of light a stark contrast to the dark he'd been swallowed up by on the entire way here. His brow furrowed, eyes closing as he felt his arms shifted, pulled from behind his back to wrap around the chair, before the man stood beside him stepped away for a moment, only to come back with rope. How cliche. It was like a terrible film. Maybe they thought it was a necessary precaution, maybe they assumed he was too dangerous to allow for there to be a risk of him slipping out of his restraints. He liked the thought of that more than anything else, really. 

His eyes finally settled, adjusting to the new light in the room, and finally, he could see his surroundings. He'd been set down in what appeared to resemble a farmhouse, of some sorts. It wasn't quite the right shape or size for a warehouse, but seemed too industrial for anything else. All grey concrete and hard wood. Like it had once been used to house labourers, but had since been gutted out. It felt like it was created to be intimidating, but again, there was no fear in Sebastian in regards to it all. Just an itching nervousness, something he couldn't shake. The build up of being stuck in a confined space, unable to move and talk for so long. At least here he could see more, anticipate more. Bigger rooms tended to mean he felt as though he had much more room to breathe. 

Sinking back into the chair, he partly prepared himself for a punch, or a kick, some kind of violence, but was distracted by the clap of a car door being slammed shut, and his attention being pulled up and away, looking to the left. A moment of silence, before slow footsteps started, crunching over gravel, moving closer and closer, before the noise changed, and they clapped onto concrete. 

In this light, the two men could see one another clearly. Moriarty's arms crossed over his chest, his head tilting to the side for just a moment as his eyes took in the man before him. Dishevelled, obviously, though it appeared that even before his little altercation he had been that way. The stubble on his face, coupled with the bags under his eyes practically bled some kind of bad habit. Something that rendered him relatively free of the desire that so many others had to make themselves seem presentable. He would've perhaps let it slide for anyone else, but for a soldier? A man who had perfection beaten into him? No. It didn't make sense. So, it meant addiction. He perhaps would've settled on mental illness, however, there was doubt in his mind in regards to that. Sebastian Moran was a normal man who did extraordinary things, and in no way, shape or form had he ever exhibited signs of anything other than pure normalcy. There was nothing wrong with him, not in the head, not from anything that James could tell. He had, however, come to notice the other's fondness for alcohol. Something which seemed to be more than likely the prime suspect for the man's lack of self care. 

Within a few seconds however, he had snapped himself out of that mindset, and instead, taken it upon himself to walk forward. His eyes flitted just briefly over the old soldier's face, noting the blood. It looked even less appealing when dried. He'd never been one for getting himself messy, certainly not allowing himself to be at risk of getting dirty, either. He'd have to have the man cleaned up. 

"If you had any brains, I'd imagine that you'd know why we're here. I don't really need to keep that secret from you." 

Really, James felt no need at all to keep secrets. Everything he did was quite public, and all in all, remarkably dramatic. He revelled in it. Boredom came around all too often, and slinking around in the shadows never did anyone any good, certainly not a man who had proven himself to be very much an Agent of Chaos. He preferred to work in the daytime, or any time, really. He didn't mind making public appearances, nor disappearing, when the show called for it. Unlike Sebastian, he worked underneath everyone's noses. Not behind their backs. His eyes wandered over the building, for a moment, considering just how much noise they could make here before somebody noticed, before concluding that it would be, overall, a rather lot.  It was wonders what a buying out a house in the country, in the middle of the nowhere, did for criminals. Not that he was planning to make any amount of noise. His eyes snapped back to the other, and he drew in a breath, letting out a bored huff of air, before he started talking again. 

"Alright. Obviously, you're too stupid to know. Being normal must be so boring, I wonder how a man like you gets anything done with a brain that works at the speed of a dogs." He started off with an air of humour, but it became apparent there was bile in his tone towards the end. Just enough provocation to poke Sebastian into barking out an answer, almost on command. 

"You want me to do your work. Dirty work. Work for you. Whatever you want to call it." A pause, a brief but fruitless pull at his wrist constraints, before he gave a less than enthused huff, and a grunt, and turned his head up to look at the other. "And I'm not exactly in any position to say no, am I?"

"He speaks. Clever boy." There was a lilt of humour in his voice now, as though the other's words had diffused the situation, and now it was simply taunting between friends. "You're right. Not that I'm surprised. Anyone could have picked up on those clues. But you're also very right about you not being in any position to say no. I've made quite certain of that." 

Sebastian had been a tricky case, really. Soldiers so often weren't motivated by fear, or the fear of death. They'd been there, they'd done that, they'd seen it time and time again. More deeply ingrained emotional factors seemed to work best. In Sebastian's case, Moriarty was almost certain that the moment his new project broke down would be the moment he'd never leave. Loyal to a fault. It had been noted in all of his files. A dog was only ever as good as it's Master, and without one, it fell to the curb. Sebastian had been left without a Master for a year, and in that time, he'd committed murder. Multiple murders. He'd developed an addiction to alcohol, and if left alone for any longer, would likely have fallen to the curb. Maybe a drug addict, maybe kidnapped and tortured. His work would have been sloppier and sloppier. 

James Moriarty was not one for kindness, or rather, he was not one for kindness without a price. He hired out his services, but they came with a crippling cost. Sometimes it was signing away your life, sometimes it was putting your family at risk. Sometimes, it was risking having a bomb strapped to you, or having yourself shipped elsewhere and imprisoned. Falsely accused of heinous crimes and locked away for them. Whatever it was, it was the one constant when meeting Moriarty. You would never obtain anything without a dire, and oftentimes deadly, cost. 

This was his unannounced act of kindness for Moran. For a poor mutt that had been stowed away, ruined by his own independence. Waltzing around just waiting to be hit by whatever car had his name sprawled over the bumper. Oh, no, James wouldn't let that happen. He'd be generous. He'd draw every ounce of kindness he could from whatever cold, dead organ had settled itself in the place of his heart, and offer up a  _proper_ second chance for Moran. Just like any good civilian would. 

A hand reached into his pocket, drawing out a notebook lined in what appeared to be leather that was coloured blue. The notebook itself looked well used, and rather old, and in turn, James opened it up, flicking through a page or two, before his head lifted to glance back to Sebastian. 

"I do believe we have an arrangement or two to discuss, and I must admit, I'm looking forward to it."

A tut from Sebastian, who rolled his eyes. The light seemed to be bringing back his senses now, seeing who was in front of him, who had come for him, and who thought that they could beat him had aided in fuelling that ability to separate himself again. He'd stopped feeling the pain. 

"I'm very sure you are." It was gruff, sarcasm dripped over the words, and in turn, drew a smile from James. As though he understood what was coming, as though he understood exactly why Sebastian had said what he'd said, and as though, out of everything, that was his source of amusement. It only served to irritate the soldier, and for as long as he could, he took to holding the others gaze, as though it would prove that he was better than him. In the end, however, he simply gave a huff, and looked away. 

Much like a stroppy teenager, a rebellious dog needed to be calmed and conditioned, and Sebastian finally speaking gave James more ammunition that he ever could of needed. He could read him like a book in everything he said and did, and it was  _exciting._

"Good. Now that we're on the same page, I believe we can begin." 

The words oozed amusement, as another little grin plastered itself across James' face, and he stepped closer to the other once more, notebook folding over, and being tucked back into his pocket. 

**Author's Note:**

> wow hi ok. this is my first ever time doing something like this, i've never had less of a clue as to what i'm doing and where i'm going with something. all i know is it's 3:47am, and i've been writing this for like a week because i keep putting it off. updates won't be regular but they likely will exist. so thats something to look forward to! nonetheless, hope you enjoyed this all, friends.


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